


Your Cricket Swing is Distinctive

by coldthing



Category: Albert Campion - Margery Allingham, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 22:57:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldthing/pseuds/coldthing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Campion had the decency to look hurt. "It really isn't what it looks like"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Cricket Swing is Distinctive

**Author's Note:**

> I really feel like i'm just posting my brain droppings here in case someone else finds them as mildly amusing as I do. I wish i had more patience for plotting to expand on my headcanon Moffat-ized Campion.

The man spared Sherlock a casual glance as if he hadn’t just bludgeoned a man to death with a cricket bat.

"I'm really sorry about this Mr. Holmes. This did not going according my plan" he frowned, hefting the cricket bat in one hand.

"Your plan" said Sherlock derisively.

The man nodded quickly “I didn't introduce myself" he held out his hand, the one not currently occupied with the cricket bat. "Albert Campion."

Sherlock didn't take it; it had blood on it. "Did Mycroft send you?" He bristled.

Campion looked down at his bloodied hand in disappointment, a frown twitched at the side of his mouth; he wiped it on the front of his dark blue jumper (well made, expensive wool, possibly bespoke). "I'm afraid so" he said.

Campion had gray eyes (approx. dee4fa) and rather unflattering horn rimmed glasses (Navy issue circa. 2001).  He was slightly above average height (approx. 182.7cm) and might be below average weight (approx. 68kg) Campion swung the cricket bat one handed and Sherlock revised his weight estimation (81kg).  His hair was a color that Sherlock decided he liked the word dishwater (approx. faf0be) to describe.

"Look we really need to move" Campion said. "I’ve got a man with a car waiting outside"

"Who am I to impede the workings of Her Majesty's secret service" Sherlock snorted, he knelt over the man Campion had bludgeoned and discovered that he was not in fact dead, just very very unconscious. He searched his pockets and retrieved:

  1. Cell phone, new model
  2. 9mm handgun, 2 shots remaining in the clip
  3. Carton of cigarettes, Chinese brand,  5 remaining
  4.  Twenty pounds in assorted change and bills
  5. One hundred and three yen in assorted change and bills
  6. Three matchbooks



Campion had the decency to look hurt. "It really isn't what it looks like"

"I'm sure it’s not" replied Sherlock and pocketed his discoveries. "You said something about a man with a car"

Arriving at the man in the car took about ten minutes wading through back alleys and jumping two fences.   The man was an aging skinhead with small keen black eyes and a nearly unintelligible accent and the car was something low to the ground that was both very powerful and very quiet. Campion kicked open the boot and pulled out a sheet of plastic in which he wrapped his bloodied cricket bat. Then he dropped it to next few   pieces of rather expensive pieces looking luggage. Campion then bundled Sherlock into the back seat with him and patted the driver’s shoulder "Off you go Lugg" he said, the man grunted, gunned the car and they pulled out onto the road.

"Oh dear" said Campion, he sucked at his hand and produced a wrinkled cloth handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers and held it tightly against freely bleeding cut on his palm.

Sherlock stared at him “Is Mycroft employing disgraced royals now?"

Campion didn’t deign to answer him; he folded the blood handkerchief and slipped it back into his pocket. He pulled out a cell phone and slid his fingers casually along the screen a few times with a mild glance before replacing it in his pocket with his handkerchief. Sherlock recognized the swipe gestures for ‘Failed. Met SH. Return?’

"Oxford? Your cricket swing is fairly distinctive" Sherlock pressed.

Campion regarded him with an almost insultingly inane expression. "Something like that. Mr. Holmes" He coughed " _Mycroft_ has been a bit busy, I don't think he actually anticipated your interest in this torrid little afraid"

“Good, I shall have to remind him of that the next time I see him" Sherlock bit out "God forbid something escape Mycroft's notice"

Campion’s inane expression was almost unreadable; Sherlock was impressed. Campion didn’t deign to answer him; instead, he patted the shoulder of his driver and said. “Baker Street was it? Least I can do is give you a ride home”

 

999

 

John woke up to raised voices; mostly Sherlock’s voice. He rolled out of bed and picked his dressing gown up off the floor. He stumbled into the living room to find Sherlock in a deep discussion with rather unremarkable looking young man.  Discussion was a generous word. Sherlock was shouting, the other man was drinking tea, the shouting thankfully seem to be not directed at him, but instead consisted of Sherlock loudly putting his thoughts in order.

The strange man's gaze slid over John with quiet almost disinterested precision. John knew that gaze; he knew he was guilty of that kind of gaze whenever someone entered a room. The man stood up “Albert Campion" He said and held out his hand.

"Oh nice to meet you" said John, they shook hands, Campion's grip was firm and steady, he had calluses on his palm that indicated experience with a pistol or rifle. He had a spot of blood on his trousers just under his hip. Campion smiled winningly, the expression seemed forcefully unintelligent. "What is this all about?" John asked firmly as he turned to Sherlock who had finally shut his mouth and was staring intently at the mantle.

“A rather sordid little affair, it seems the Chinese are trying to send messages via the television,” Sherlock said, still looking at the mantle. It had been cleared of everything except Sherlock’s pet skull that had been reverently placed in the middle. “Except Mr. Campion here had to decency to nearly kill the man I was trying to talk to.”

Campion put his teacup down on one of the more sturdy piles of books and cleared his throat. “Well I didn’t realize you were so intent on questioning him, it rather looked like he was going to shoot you”

Sherlock gave him a haughty look.  “Why would you even have a cricket bat when breaking and entering?” it wasn’t actually a question, just a statement of incredulity “That’s one of the stupidest things I’ve ever seen anyone do”

"And what do you do Mr. Campion?"John asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

Campion's smile had too many teeth “I execute justice," he said brightly.

John frowned, that hadn't been what he wanted to hear at all.  “Ok” he said, “I’ve had enough for the night. I’m going back to bed”


End file.
